Six feet below
by 7thRaven
Summary: Damned english weather. Bad for my arthritis. Why the hell did I come here? The boy's dead. Since when do I care for the dead?...


Oh, well... There isn't much I can say about this. English isn't my first language, and this ficlet wasn't beataed by native-speaker. So please don't judge me too hard ;-) Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing (what else did you expect ?) 

**Six feet under**

Damned english weather. Bad for my arthritis. Why the hell did I come here? The boy's dead. Since when do I care for the dead? I've seen so many people die and as good as never buried one of them. The last one's worm food... Merde, this cough gets worse every day. And for that I had to become so old!

Showy, this tombstone. White marble, eh? They buried his father somewhere in the jungle. _That's _ a grave fitting for a mercenary – fitting for a _Bernadette_. We live for the money, not for the fame. We die for the money, not for the memory. No religion. No ideals. Nine generations of mercenaries. The ninth generation lies beneath this stone, six feet under. No way left for us.

Pauvre petit. Somehow, he was degenerated; totally different to his dad. He never really understood what it means to be a Bernadette. That you can be proud of it. I always thought it would change when he grows older – but it didn't.

How old has he been – nine? ten?- when he came to me crying because the little monsters in school told him the truth? They didn't have the slightest idea of what they were talking about when they called him an 'assassin's son'. Idiots, all of them. What do they know? It isn't about murder. It's about the fight; it's always about the fight.

They say he died for a girl. This is so stupid – and so unbelievably typical for the wayward little bastard. What the hell did I do wrong?

Of course, I liked him – he was my grandson. We only didn't understand one another.

Strange. I nearly feel like he's standing beside me, watching me in this inscrutable, questioning manner like he always did when he was still a child.

_Is it like that, little one? Have you decided to watch me a while before you finally go to hell? Look closely at the old man I've become. Too weak to fight; too old to roam around in war zones._

Concerning that girl... When you're young, you do a lot of stupid things to impress the girls. Like I did to impress Nathalie... Let's forget that..

In the last thirty years, I lost all members of my family, one by one. And now I'm standing by the grave of my grandson. My grandson... a mercenary with a conscience. Ridiculous!

One of his boys, a nerve-straining stopgap preacher called Jim, told me something about 'death for love'. Imagine that: love! How long did I try to make Pip understand there isn't something like 'love'? Fascination, yes. Affection, yes. Sex, yes. Love, no. And money, of course. Loyality's alright if it's paid well. But I really don't think Lady Hellsing paid the boy a bonus for sacrificing himself.

The goddamn cough tears me up on the inside; I'm spitting blood more often now, just like in this moment. _I guess we'll meet again soon, junior._

I should probably be afraid, but I've met death so often now that I don't fear him any more but regard to him as a friend. I've been standing at enough graves, lied in trenches too often, letting bullets whistle around my head... I've killed too often. My son and my grandson have gone before me. I've become useless – all I can do is wait...

Look at that. _Red roses on your grave, little one. Your girl must have really liked you. Seems like she's missing you._ Nobody is going to miss me. Y_ou want to know something, Pip? I miss you, too. You were something special in your own impossible, distorted way. Perhaps we should have talked more instead of arguing or being silent. I've known you not half as good as I should have._

Damn, what am I doing here ? I'm standing in the rain and carry on imaginary, one-sided conversations with my dead grandson. I'm really going mad. No sentimentalities!

The marble is hard and cold. _Like you glare when you last visited me._ „Vive la mort. Vive la guerre. Vive le sacré mercenaire." _This time, we meet from mercenary to mercenary, as equals. I don't remember you as the crying boy any more, but as the angry young man who wished the plague upon me when we last met. You know what? Somehow, I'm even proud of you. It requires a lot of courage and strength to be different from what they want you to be._

My legs feel heavy as lead, and the mansion seems to be unattainably far away.

_I've looked through your things – and given everything to your girl. She reminds me of someone... but I can't tell who this would be. I don't need your clothes and your weapons to remember you. The only thing I took was your dog tag. I wear it on a chain around my neck, together with your father's and my own._

Well, looks like that was it. The doctor dissuaded me from this journey, but if it was for him, I would have died ten years ago. I'm glad I've been here. Get rid of unnecessary sentimentalisms. _ Reserve me a place in hell, my little one – I will be there soon to claim it._ Until then, I won't waste time with being maudlin...

Strange. The rain wipes everything out. That must be the reasons that my sight suddenly is so blurred.

_21/04/05_

_pauvre petit_: poor little one

_merde_: Sh...

_Vive la mort..._: Long live death. Long live war. Long live the damned mercenary.


End file.
